1980 Week: The Mirror Crack’d

          The Agatha Christie vogue that began with Murder on the Orient Express (1974) fizzled quickly, but not before several big-budget mediocrities were unleashed on the public. Of these lesser Christie adaptations, the British-made The Mirror Crack’d is interesting because it doubles as a catty story about Hollywood, complete with performances by several iconic American actors. The Mirror Crack’d doesn’t work for a lot of reasons, ranging from an inconsistent tone to the way the main detective is sidelined throughout most of the action. Viewed as glossy camp, however, The Mirror Crack’d offers minor distractions. Set in England during the 1950s, the story revolves around a group of Hollywood professionals visiting Great Britain for a movie shoot. Christie’s matronly detective Miss Marple (Angela Lansbury) happens upon the shoot at the same time a series of murders begins, so, naturally, it falls to Marple and her intrepid nephew, Inspector Craddox (Edward Fox), to identify the killer. In classic Christie fashion, the investigation reveals years of secrets and lies, all of which Marple explains in a lengthy final scene.

          The murder-mystery stuff is fine, if a bit perfunctory, so what really connects is the showbiz satire. Kim Novak and Elizabeth Taylor play aging screen queens who trade nasty barbs, while Tony Curtis plays the sleazy agent/husband of Novak’s character and Rock Hudson plays the director/husband of Taylor’s character. Naturally, there’s a mistress in the mix, as well. Made without any pretense to sophistication, the film is enlivened by bitchery. Looking in a mirror, Taylor’s character coos, “Bags, bags, go away, come back again on Doris Day.” Another gem: “I could eat a can of Kodak and puke a better movie.” You get the idea. Lansbury is great fun whenever she’s onscreen, and in retrospect her performance seems like an audition for the long-running TV series Murder, She Wrote (1984-1996). Yet for much of the movie, she’s absent, with Fox doing the heavy investigative lifting. As for the big names, Curtis, Hudson, and Taylor are cartoonish but appealing, while Novak is embarrassingly bad.

The Mirror Crack’d: FUNKY

A Doll’s House (1973, UK) & A Doll’s House (1973, USA)

          In an odd coincidence, two films of Henrik Ibsen’s play A Doll’s House arrived in 1973, one in theaters and one on television. Both take place in 19th-century Norway, where housewife Nora revels upon hearing that her husband, uptight banker Torvald, has earned a major promotion, because the change marks an end to the family’s monetary woes. When Torvald fires a subordinate named Krogstad, the disgruntled man blackmails Nora with evidence that she once forged documents for a bank loan. The ensuing melodrama reveals what little respect Torvald has for his wife—hence the title, which refers to men treating women as playthings. Given the story’s ultimate theme of a woman’s self-realization, it’s obvious why the material seemed timely during the early feminist era.

          The British version, ironically enough, has American roots. It’s a filmed record of a Broadway production that was adapted from Ibsen by the celebrated UK playwright Christopher Hampton. The Broadway show featured revered British actress Claire Bloom in a tour-de-force performance, and Bloom re-creates her meticulous work in the movie. Director Patrick Garland largely ignores any cinematic possibilities in the play, opting for intimate scenes taking place on fully dressed approximations of the stage production’s sets. At his worst, Garland slips into bland cuts back and forth between flat close-ups, particularly during the final, lengthy showdown between Nora and Torvald. What Garland’s A Doll House lacks in visual imagination, however, it makes up for in dramatic firepower.

          Bloom runs the gamut from frivolous to manic to regal, and her costar—the sublime Anthony Hopkins—imbues Torvald with a mixture of inflated ego and repressed desperation. Playing key supporting roles are Denholm Elliot, bitter and cruel as the maligned Krogstand, and Ralph Richardson, elegantly sad as Nora’s aging friend, Dr. Rank. One can’t help but wonder what a filmmaker more adept at stage-to-screen adaptations, perhaps Sidney Lumet, could have done with the raw material of these finely tuned performances, but at least theater fans can savor great work forever. Plus, in any incarnation, Ibsen’s prescient notions about women liberating themselves pack a punch. Consider this passage from the British film: After Torvald exclaims, “No man would sacrifice his honor for love,” Nora replies, “Millions of women have.”

          Seeing as how Jane Fonda was a fierce combatant on the front lines of the ’70s culture wars, it’s not surprising she felt Ibsen’s statement merited a fresh adaptation. Alas, she proved unlucky twice. First, she clashed with director Joseph Losey, and second, she completed her project after the UK version had already reached theaters. That’s why the Fonda film landed on TV—producers rightly estimated the limits of the public’s appetite for this material. In nearly every way, Losey’s take on A Doll’s House is inferior to the Bloom/Hopkins version, even though Losey’s comparatively sophisticated camerawork creates more visual interest than Garland’s stodgy frames.

          The big problem is that the casting never clicks. Fonda gives an adequate performance, with intense moments of fervor and physicality weighted down by stilted readings of classical-style dialogue. Viewed in context, she’s an outlier. Fine European actors including Trevor Howard (as Dr. Rank) and David Warner (as Torvald) seem natural delivering reams of ornate dialogue while stuffed into period costumes, but none of them truly connects with Fonda—her performance exists in isolation from the rest of the picture. Plus, since the gangly Warner somewhat resembles a frequent Fonda costar, it’s impossible not to picture Donald Sutherland in the Torvald role and wonder what that dynamic might have been like. That said, Edward Fox is excellent in the Krogstand role, radiating predatory heat. Yet the thing that should have supercharged this spin on A Doll’s House, Fonda’s offscreen passion for gender equality, makes key moments feel more like stand-alone political speeches instead of organic elements of interpersonal confrontation.

A Doll’s House (UK): GROOVY

A Doll’s House (USA): FUNKY

The Squeeze (1977)

          Produced in England and featuring the same sort of seedy criminals who pervade such UK crime classics as Get Carter (1971) and The Long Good Friday (1980), this slow burn of a picture boasts a terrific leading performance by Hollywood actor Stacy Keach—so long as you disregard his patchy version of a British accent—and a believably grimy tone. Keach plays Jim, a loser who drank himself out of a job as a police detective and botched his marriage in the process. When we meet him, he’s so far down the spiral that he gets arrested for public inebriation and thrown into a drunk tank, then walks out of jail the next day and heads for the nearest pub.

          Duty calls when gangsters kidnap Jim’s ex-wife, Jill (Carol White), and the young daughter she’s raising with her new husband, Foreman (Edward Fox). Foreman enlists Jim’s aid in tracking down the perpetrators, but in his sodden state, Jim is initially no match for brutal crime boss Vic (Stephen Boyd) and his brilliant but sociopathic underling, Keith (David Hemmings). Jim is captured while attempting to probe Vic’s estate, so Vic humiliates the would-be hero by having him beaten senseless, stripped naked, pumped full of booze, and then deposited back in his own neighborhood without a stitch of clothing. Meanwhile, Keith torments Jill under threat of harming her daughter, forcing her to strip for his goons and provide sexual favors. Bubbling under the whole affair is a blackmail scheme, because Foreman is an executive at an armored-car service, so instead of ransom, Vic demands help arranging a massive heist.

          What makes The Squeeze unique is the twist it provides on the usual crime-movie formula. Whereas most filmmakers would show a character like Jim making subtle moves as he prepares a climactic rescue, the folks behind The Squeeze show that Vic and his goons are fully aware of Jim’s machinations, but don’t consider him a threat because he’s such a wreck. And, for much of the movie’s running time, their assessment proves correct. Jim reacts to hardships by retreating into alcohol, even though he knows that innocent people will pay terrible prices for his choices. All of this dark drama is set to a driving and eerie score by David Hentschel, which pops with synthesizer-laden prog-rock flourishes. Had The Squeeze benefited from a sharper script, the grim concepts marbled through the story could have elevated the piece into rarified terrain. As is, the picture is an interesting near-miss containing several fine performances.

          In particular, Irish actor Boyd—appearing in one of his final films—gives a disquieting turn as an unsophisticated brute, employing his natural accent instead of hiding behind the Americanized speaking style he used during his Hollywood career. (Boyd is a long way from his vapid he-man turns in such widescreen epics as 1959’s Ben-Hur and 1964’s The Fall of the Roman Empire.) Hemmings and Keach deliver exemplary work, though each actor played similar notes in other films; debauched villains were a staple of Hemmings’ filmography dating back to Camelot (1967), and Keach’s definitive drunk-loser performance was in John Huston’s bleak drama Fat City (1972). Yet even if The Squeeze isn’t a defining moment for anyone involved, it’s executed with menace and skill, and it’s among the toughest pieces ever helmed by the prolific English director Michael Apted, who is generally best known for documentaries and sensitive melodramas.

The Squeeze: GROOVY

The Cat and the Canary (1978)

          John Willard’s 1922 play The Cat and the Canary, which blends comedic and horrific elements while telling the story of would-be heirs trying to survive an evening in a spooky house, has enjoyed a long cinematic afterlife. The first screen adaptation was a 1929 silent picture, and two additional versions were filmed in between the silent movie and a successful 1939 remake starring Bob Hope. (The 1939 movie did so well that costars Hope and Paulette Godard reteamed for another funny/scary romp, 1940’s The Ghost Breakers, which, incidentally, was among the inspirations for the 1984 blockbuster Ghostbusters.) By the time this 1978 version of the story was produced, social mores had changed considerably. As helmed by Radley Metzger—who spent most of the ’70s directing hardcore porn flicks—the 1978 Cat and the Canary is rougher than its predecessors, and, not coincidentally, a lot less charming.

          Whereas the Hope Cat and the Canary blends gentle suspense with lighthearted laughs, the 1978 Cat and the Canary tries to spruce up old material by adding gore, sex, and torture. Yet the underlying material is so fundamentally old-fashioned that it doesn’t gel with Hammer Films-style extremes. Instead of seeming bold and shocking, the 1978 Cat and the Canary comes across as desperate, disjointed, and even a bit vulgar. The movie is watchable, thanks to the fun storyline and a parade of familiar actors, but it does not improve upon its predecessors.

          Set in a grand English mansion, the story concerns a group of relatives who gather for the reading of a will. The deceased party is a rich eccentric named Cyrus West (Wilfrid Hyde-White), who attaches weird conditions to his bequests. After naming a sole beneficiary, the will states that if the beneficiary is ruled insane within 30 days, the fortune will pass to a successor. These conditions, naturally, prompt everyone but the initial beneficiary to attempt mischief. Adding to the macabre mix is a visit from a psychiatrist who says that a maniac recently escaped from a nearby mental hospital.

          When this storyline works, as in the Hope classic, the narrative is a ghoulish lark. In the hands of Metzger and his collaborators, the narrative is artificial and stilted. Worse, nearly all the humor is drained from the material by flat performances; only Hyde-White and pithy costar Wendy Hiller lock into the right jovial groove. Leading lady Carol Lynley is amateurish, leading man Michael Callan is forgettable, and costars Honor Blackman and Olivia Hussey are merely ornamental. The X factor is Edward Fox, who camps it up after a plot twist reveals a new side of his character. Speaking of camp, this version of The Cat and the Canary has overt gay content (including a pair of lesbian characters), which adds a certain novelty.

The Cat and the Canary: FUNKY

The Day of the Jackal (1973)

          Considering that we never learn more about the leading character than what he does for a living, considering that we know beforehand that the assassination attempt at the center of the plot will not be successful, and considering that the running time sprawls to nearly two and a half hours, it’s amazing The Day of the Jackal is so exciting to watch. Based on a novel by Frederick Forsyth and directed with restraint and sophistication by the venerable Fred Zinnemann, a four-time Oscar winner, the picture depicts a fictional attempt on the life of French president Charles de Gaulle.

          Circa the early ’60s, a cabal of disenfranchised Frenchmen who are opposed to de Gualle’s policies realize he is too heavily guarded for an outright terrorist attack to succeed. Taking a fresh tack, the conspirators hire an English hit man known only by his codename, “The Jackal” (Edward Fox). He takes the job for $1 million, then ensures his own security by stating that he won’t share any information with his employers about how or when the murder will take place. Thereafter, the picture presents, in painstaking detail, the process by which the Jackal acquires false identification papers, special weaponry, and a vantage point he can use as a sniper post while de Gualle attends a major public rally.

          Meanwhile, an informant in the conspirators’ organization tells authorities an assassin has been hired, so a resourceful French detective, Lebel (Michael Lonsdale), is assigned to prevent the killing even though the police have no data regarding the Jackal’s identity or strategy.

          Shooting at wonderfully mundane locations throughout Europe, and almost completely eschewing musical scoring, Zinnemman creates such palpable realism that the movie often feels like a documentary. Whether he’s showing the Jackal coldly practicing with his custom-made rifle or showing Lebel’s team sorting through border-crossing records for clues, Zimmemann observes the story from a clinical distance, allowing us to see the day-to-day procedures of two very different worlds.

          In the Jackal scenes, Fox is a seemingly emotionless operator, bringing the same intense patience to the task of seducing an attractive woman that he brings to the task of smuggling his gun across the French border. We catch glimpses of his twisted humanity, as in a key moment when he ignores warning signs telling him to abort his mission, but he remains a fascinating enigma, as mysterious to us as he is to his pursuers. In the Lebel scenes, Lonsdale is a wonderfully sobering presence, a relentless perfectionist who will try anything, even bugging the offices of government officials, to advance his investigation. (A young Derek Jacobi plays Lebel’s coolly efficient assistant.) The story climaxes in a trite action-movie finale, but nearly every scene prior to the ending radiates credibility and intelligence, and the tension never lapses.

The Day of the Jackal: RIGHT ON

Force 10 from Navarone (1978)

          An unnecessary but harmless sequel to a classic action movie, Force 10 from Navarone slots replacement actors into the leading roles from The Guns of Navarone (1961); it also substitutes the simplistic men-on-a-mission vibe of the earlier film with a convoluted storyline comprising rampant double-crosses. As a result, Force 10 lacks the clarity and star power of its predecessor. At the end of The Guns of Navarone, World War II British commandoes Mallory (Gregory Peck) and Miller (David Niven) head home for England after blowing up an enemy installation in Nazi-occupied Greece. Force 10 picks up a short while later, when Mallory (Robert Shaw) and Miller (Edward Fox) are recruited to kill a dangerous double agent embedded with rebel forces in Yugoslavia.

          For reasons that are never particularly clear, the duo gets attached to “Force 10,” an American commando unit headed to Yugoslavia for a mysterious mission, and this understandably irritates Force 10’s no-nonsense leader, Barnsby (Harrison Ford). Thereafter, the movie’s narrative gets really contrived. First, an American soldier under military arrest, Weaver (Carl Weathers), escapes captivity and sneaks onto Force 10’s plane. Then, upon arrival in Yugoslavia, Mallory and Miller must track the shifting allegiances of a monstrous Yugoslavian (Richard Kiel), a beautiful rebel fighter (Barbara Bach), and the man who may or may not be their assassination target (Franco Nero). Oh, and there’s also the whole business of Force 10’s mission, which involves blowing up a bridge.

          Force 10 from Navarone is so over-plotted that character development is a casualty, but the movie zips along nicely thanks to attractive location photography and crisp direction by Bond-movie veteran Guy Hamilton. The picture has some enjoyable macho highlights, like Weathers’ duel with Kiel—how totally ’70s to see a knife fight between Apollo Creed and “Jaws” from the 007 movies! Additionally, Bach provides the requisite sex appeal, Nero smolders as we try to determine whether he’s a hero or a villain, and Fox scores a few laughs as a pip-pip Brit with a perpetual even keel. The climax has some groovy miniature effects, too.

          However, the movie hinges on the leading performances, and they’re a mixed bag. Shaw, apparently enjoying his post-Jaws run of action-hero roles, is atypically lighthearted, but Ford is lifeless. Shooting his first big action movie after Star Wars, he seems determined to present a characterization with more gravitas than his Han Solo performance, but this movie is far too slight to support understated acting. Nonetheless, Ford’s participation is probably why Force 10 from Navarone has been a cable-TV staple since the early ’80s, and it’s interesting to see the actor finding his way before Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) secured his status as a cinematic icon.

Force 10 from Navarone: FUNKY

The Go-Between (1971)

The thorny tale of a collision between a romantic triangle and England’s merciless class system circa the year 1900, The Go-Between is defined by the contributions of Harold Pinter, who adapted the story from a novel by L.P. Hartley. The illustrious playwright known for cryptically menacing works like Betrayal, Pinter also boasts a celebrated screenwriting career mostly comprising gloomy adaptations, whether of his own work or esteemed books. The Go-Between was the third and final literary adaptation he made with posh filmmaker Joseph Losey, and like its predecessors the film is distinguished by deceptively polite dialogue, methodical storytelling, and painfully repressed emotion. The sum effect is not for all tastes (Pinter’s monastically restrained style generally tests my patience, and his work on this film is no exception), but there’s no denying that The Go-Between is a film of rare sophistication. The narrative concerns a working-class teen named Leo, who spends a summer at a lavish estate and becomes embroiled in adults’ romantic intrigue. Wealthy Marion (Julie Christie) is engaged to another member of the ruling class, but she lusts after a local farmer, Ted (Alan Bates). Marion charms Leo into carrying notes through which she and Ted arrange trysts, and the discovery of the illicit relationship damages everyone involved—including Leo, who is so anguished by his complicated feelings toward the beautiful Marion that he makes a bad situation much worse. The central narrative is powerful, but it’s surrounded, intentionally, with assorted emotional subplots that contribute to the film’s statement about the perniciousness of arbitrary divisions between people. As a result, the pacing seems glacial at times and the themes are excruciatingly subtle, even though key performances hit the right notes. Dominic Guard is passably petulant as young Leo, while Christie crisply personifies an insufferably self-indulgent brat, and Bates gives a muscular turn as a simple man doomed by unfortunate attraction. As aristocrats who watch the drama unfold, Edward Fox, Michael Gough, and Oscar nominee Margaret Leighton surround the leading players with chilly elegance masking vile snobbery. Amorous and vicious but still challengingly rarified, The Go-Between is a prime example of Christie’s icy allure.

The Go-Between: GROOVY